Hopeless Innocent
by BitterPotato00
Summary: "Huckleberry Finn," I ask nobody, "who's going to save you?" "Unfortunate child, are you even worth savin?"


Finn.

The name itself serves as a warnin'. It rolls off one's recoiling tongue, clenches teeth shut in its wake, and insights a tone of disapprovin' scorn. Even to those with the fortune of not knowin' him, that testament pulls right on through.

Finn.

I seen him before. I seen him more than anyone, as a matter a' fact. When the night creeps over the sky and the hogs retire, he'll come by. Then suddenly tree branches stirrin' and shadows creepin' about ain't just a trick on the eye; it's an ominous greeting, a sign the town tramp's up to no good.

Huckleberry Finn.

The boy was hell bound from the start. His father staggers in now and again, disruptin' folks and bullyraggin' for another drink. Them drinks have diminished that man's soul- if he even had one to begin with. Ol' Finn's life is a right stupor of alcohol and abuse; it's what he been teachin' his son for some time now. Family is family; the actions and crimes of one member goes to taintin' the others.

"How long," I'm often wonderin', "until the boy becomes his father?"

"Huckleberry Finn," I ask nobody, "who's going to save you?"

"Unfortunate child, are you even worth savin'?"

Huckleberry Finn.

He's scoped out a new target. This here target's got the brightest green eyes a body ever did see- with sights dead set on life and adventure, narrowin' at whatever dares disrupt his path, and shinin' at the thought a' glory. But he's vulnerable. Real vulnerable. And the tramp's got enough vile brains to use that vulnerableness and twist him blind. Not blind in the eyes, mind you, but blind, morally. There ain't no tellin' what this child is capable of; nothing is sacred to Huckleberry Finn. He fears no God and authority wields no correctin' influence on him, and his feralness is just waitin' to spread to the next weak soul. But I won't let him have my Tom. He can't take my nephew- I won't stand for it.

There's a sick feelin' in my gut, however, cause I reckon it might just be too late.

Huckleberry Finn.

I met his eyes one afternoon. That in itself ain't unusual- me catchin' a glimpse at him, that is- but this time the imp didn't immediately slink away. He stared back. His eyes were ice; a piercin' light blue, blue as a clear summer sky, but with a sinisterness lurking within that just about froze my soul solid. There warn't no sneer, no word or gesture to him, but I'd still felt as wounded as a shot dog under that stony gaze. And as I hurried along, I swear to the good Lord that I saw him smile.

When Tom come home that day, I laid right into him. Sure enough too, because he'd played hooky and spent his time with-

You know.

I started whipping him before I had my wits about me. But even then I didn't stop till my hands were ablaze and tears cascaded down Tom's face like the Mississippi River itself. Finally I sent him up to his room, sat myself down, and cried as quietly as possible. He wasn't there the next time I went up a-checkin' for him.

In bed that evening my thoughts were cyclin' something furious. I was a-ponderin' my failures as Tom's guardian: I wasn't harsh enough on him for his own good, I knew his wayward games and talks, and I warn't doing him favors with my weaknesses. I am his aunt, certainly, but I ain't his mama. Can't ever be his mama, either, and I ain't fittin' to challenge that. But I'm all that boy's got; all that's keepin' him on the straight and narrow.

Presently I allowed myself to go imaginin' Tom without me, without nobody, and suddenly I wasn't seein' Tom at all anymore, but Huckleberry Finn. He was nearer to me now than at any other point in time- and at this point I was struck plumb terrified.

But I wasn't scared of him- never was, I came to realizin'- but what he was representin'.

The child is everything I'd feared my Tom to be. He was alone with nobody to look up to and nobody to make proud. Love was a word not present in his talk because he had never known it from his blood and those surroundin' him hadn't no love to spare for him. Even the boys I seen hangin' around him ain't there for him nuther; they want the rosy visions of his life, but not him nor his company. Them boys don't give no thought to what the child has to say or how he feels. The tram- the child is a damn pawn for their selfish games.

By and by these thoughts went to a-sinkin' my heart and transformin' Huckleberry from a threat to a mere child, a lost little lamb.

There was no use for Huckleberry to go cleanin' himself up, or to quit slouchin' and smokin' and cursin' cause it wouldn't make a damn difference anyway- people saw what they saw in him, and that was all there was to it. Beneath the dirt and grime was a boy the whole world feared and hated without one single solitary reason to, but in turn gave him a right big list of reasons for him to fear and hate the world.

And I didn't ease his terror. I helped make it worse.

Maybe there really ain't no hope for him. Maybe the evil blood in his veins will control him in the end, but that blood wasn't created by his own accord- it was thrusted upon him without no interest in his say.

Huckleberry Finn, despite all his waywardness and vulgarity and hopelessness, is innocent. I never once went around expectin' them words to come off my tongue, and for me to go around meanin' them.

I laid there for Lord knows how much time, just thinkin' about the world. For such a beautiful place, it sure seemed to play favorites. Royalty, I suspect, are favored the best out of everybody; what's the chance of a child being born of a noble family somewhere exotic? They eat the freshest foods and sleep in the comfortablest beds imaginable- and they sleep all day long because they have their servants and maids do all the work for them. They wear all sorts of fancy duds with fabrics folks like myself cannot go to pronouncin'. From the time them royal people wake up to the time they're a-settin' their crowns to the pillow, they're blessed. Then there's the common folk- like the people in St. Petersburg and the next town over and the town over from that. Not as richly blest, perhaps, but able to use what the Lord gives to make an honest livin'. The house may be chilly when the fire won't burn and the Bibles come out when the little 'uns fall sickly but life is still right sweet as a pumpkin pie.

Then there's the others- the least favored of God's children. They make their homes in the pig pens and back alleys of the town, where nobody has to look at them; they live where nobody has to know that they exist. Time goes by and the leaves change but for them each tick of the clock and hourly chime is no kinder than the last. So then years pass by and by and the world continues to strike them down; that must be a considerable beatin' they take, far from Providence and swallowed whole by darkness and hatred.

I thought about Pap Finn and Muff Potter, how they were boys at some point in time, how they mighta been imaginative like my Tom or determined like Joe Harper or silly like Ben Rogers- before the world and their sorry decisions went a-huntin' them down. I wondered if any folks tried to help them. I wondered if any folks cared enough to notice.

I knew it was far too late for them poor bastards, Muff and Ol' Finn, but Huckleberry, he had time. He was 'round twelve or thirteen or so, little more than a developin' lamb- or a festerin' rattlesnake, some may say.

Perhaps there wasn't something sinister-like hidin' in them icy eyes, but fearful instead. Fear can be mighty deceptive, you know.

I heard Tom sneak back into his window and crawl into bed, as it was mighty cold outside. I was relieved to have him home safe; my tired eyes finally went a-creepin' shut for the night. 'Twas a chilly evening for those sleeping outside. I didn't even have to ask myself who that thought was referencin'.

Huck Finn.

That's the name them children call him. I'll hear it now and again, whether it be when I'm 'round the town corner or through the wooded paths or even approachin' my own house. It fits, I s'pose.

I found myself patchin' up a pair of Tom's old pants one morning. They weren't of any use on account of my nephew's steady growing, but something possessed me that they could be of value to someone else. They were nearly mint by the time I was done with 'em, anyway.

On my way to town, I draped them pants over the lonely barrels in some dismal alleyway. They were on my mind the whole time I was away doin' my chores.

But by the time I was a-headin' home, the barrels sat bare of any trousers; a foot stuck outta a sideways barrel and I could see tobacco smoke emergin' like a miniature thundercloud into the mild skies. I felt myself go to a-smilin' as I walked away, as I knew them pants wouldn't go to waste.

The world may play favorites, sure, but that don't mean I have to.


End file.
